


Desperate Times

by Oh_Woffie



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:29:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oh_Woffie/pseuds/Oh_Woffie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his heart attack Burt is unable to continue full time at Hummel Tires and Lube, but he can't afford to pay to hire on another employee. He is left with one option: to buy an adoptive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Burt Hummel had never before hated himself as much as he did in that one moment.

Not in junior high when he walked in on one of the many boys he had bullied, Tommy Ringwald, trying to hang himself in the locker room washroom.

Not when he stood with his then girlfriend Katherine as she told her parents, 'I'm pregnant', and held her after her hour was up, sitting on his father's porch with the only belongings she had left in the world, whispering to her, 'It'll be okay, we'll be alright.'

Not when he had to tell his son that, 'no, mommy's never coming home,' only to have the now sobbing boy wretch himself from his father's arms and shout 'I hate you', to which Burt replied, 'Me too.'

Those were times where he didn't know better, times where he had no control over the outcome of events. This – this was conscious. This he knew was wrong. He knew why it was wrong, but here he was nonetheless.

Turning the key in the ignition Burt closed his eyes and listen to the low rumble of his flatbed truck die off quickly. With a sigh he gripped the steering wheel with all the force his body could muster, which, though a month and a half had passed since his heart attack, was not much in the form of release at all. Burt wanted nothing more than to hit something, anything. To indulge in his primal urge to yell and break things until everything was alright again – until everything went back to how it was before his heart attack. Until he could manage a full day at the shop, not having to sit in his office with the blinds drawn so he wouldn't have to feel his son's ever-worrying gaze on him as he was forced to take yet another break.

He couldn't do this to Kurt. When Katherine had died he had made a promise to himself to never let his son feel that devastation again. If he pushed himself too hard he'd end up in the hospital again, and this time he might not be lucky enough to walk out. But with the hospital bills and mortgage payments, Burt couldn't afford to take time off again, nor could he afford to pay anyone to work for him.

It was Carole who had brought the idea to him, and as much as they both detested it, there really was no other option. They couldn't afford to pay a regular employee, but, for a small investment, they could pay for someone who could work for free.

They didn't call it slavery – no. That was too harsh a word for those who preached freedom, but that's what it was, and many of them had 'adopted' these non-slaves themselves, claiming to be giving them the opportunity for a better life (though it was very rare that they did). It had started with the poor trying to save themselves from poverty by selling their person to anyone willing to buy, and had escalated from there. The children of these adoptives inherited their parents' debt, and for a while in the early to mid-nineties it had been a suitable alternative for abortion, but that was stopped quite quickly as The Homes were filled quite rapidly with screaming, useless children. Now the government had limited entry only to those born with one or both parents in the system. If an adoptive had a child with a free person, it was up to that person whether or not they wanted to keep the child or to sell it to the government.

As Burt stepped out of his truck, he was greeted by the sight of a cold stone building he had only before seen in pictures online. Being three hours away, the Home in Cleveland was too far to visit in advance. Burt could only hope he had done enough research and was able to find someone he could both afford and use. The gravel crunched beneath his boots as he made his way down the path and to the large solid metal door that would take him inside this dreary building. Pushing it open he peeked inside. It wasn't as horrible as he had thought it would be. The entranceway wasn't overtly large and was painted in a deep burgundy colour. Various false plants, pictures, and chairs were scattered about the room giving it a somewhat homey feel. Glancing to his left, Burt caught the gaze of a short, bubbly looking woman with dark brown hair cut short to just below her ears. She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling cheerfully behind the thick rim of her glasses.

"Hello, sir," she greeted lightly as she stood and began to make her way around the large oak desk she had been seated behind towards him, "I'm Holly, how can I help you today, Mr?"

Burt started at her continued enthusiasm. This was not the place he expected to find cheer.

"H-hummel. Burt, ah, Burt Hummel." He paused. "I – uh, well.. I –" He drifted off, tugging his baseball cap off his head with his thumb and index finger, moving his hand back to use his remaining three fingers to scratch at his neck.

"First time," she asked, smiling sympathetically. "That's alright; I can set you up with a tour so you can take a look around. If you see anyone you like, or want to know more about a specific adoptee feel free to ask or browse the file on their door." With a quick grin she shuffled back to their desk and picked up the receiver of her phone.

"Mark? Hi! Would you mind coming up to the lobby? I have a first-time gentleman here wanting to look around," she paused, shooting Burt a wink as she continued. "Excellent, we'll be waiting!" As she hung up the phone she looked at him again. "He'll only be a moment," she promised. Less than ten seconds later, a tall thin man burst through the door adjacent to the desk with a bright, chipper smile attached to his falsely tanned face. Holly's own smile brightened as she gestured between the two men.

"Mark, this is Mr. Hummel. Mr. Hummel, I'd like you to meet our sales rep., Mr. Markus DeLainey." Markus grinned as he strode over to Burt, grabbing his hand for a firm handshake.

"Mr. Hummel, I would like to welcome you to our Home. We hope that you can find and adoptive to suit your needs, and hope that we can help you enjoy all the perks that adoption has to offer."

The smile never left Markus' face. Suddenly the room seemed too cheerful. The plants were too green, the walls were to colorful, and the smiles on both Holly and Markus' faces were too genuine. It took everything Burt had not to turn on his heels and leave the Home, never looking back. But as his mind drifted to Carole's tired eyes, Kurt's worried gaze, and Finn's inability to understand just how deep they were in, he sighed and tried to wipe the grimace off his face.

"So," he started shakily, "how about that tour?"

Markus led him down a carpeted hallway past a few official looking rooms that appeared to be offices. There were pictures of smiling proud men and women lining the walls, all with their adoptives kneeling obediently beside them, their own expressions blank. Burt supressed a shudder. Soon he'd be the not-so-proud owner of an expressionless man or woman. As far as he could tell, they never smiled, they never cried, and for the most part, they rarely spoke. Whatever had been done to them must have been horrible if it had erased their ability to feel at all.

"Our training facilities are quite standard, Mr. Hummel. The adoptives are trained at a facitity just outside the city, and when that has been completed they are sent to us. Most of this is just for touch ups and reminders so that they don't forget what they've learned," Markus said as they passed a door that led to a small classroom, empty save for one chalkboard and one desk – presumably the instructor's. "Dedication to education is of top priority here, as is physical exercise." He motioned across Burt to a window. Stepping closer, Burt saw a small field, complete with a track that ran along the edges. There were seven people on it; six of them sprinted quite quickly around as the seventh stood still, looking as if they were shouting something. As they rounded the corner, one of the runners at the front of the line, a female, by the length of her hair, tripped and fell only a few feet in front of the runners behind her. Burt watched, expecting the other to go around or try to jump over her, but they didn't. They didn't even slow as the first one's foot landed directly on her splayed arm.

"Let's move on, shall we?" Markus asked, pulling Burt from the window. He tried to turn around, but Markus placed a firm hand on his shoulder and shot him another genuine grin. Knowing that Markus had been well aware of the scene that had been playing out before them, Burt's comfort level dropped below his initial feeling as he had put the emergency brake on in the parking lot.

'For Kurt,' he reminded himself as he was led through a white metal door, 'for Carole, and Finn, and Kurt.'

"This is a list of our newest adoptives – don't worry, they've all been quite properly trained." Markus picked up a large book from the coffee table at the beginning of a long hallway that looked like it was home to many thin, white doors. He handed the book to Burt, who flipped through it with shaking hands, trying not to look at the pictures of men and women, boys and girls, with empty eyes and expressionless faces.

"Um," he started, "this, uh. This might be a bit out of my price range. I was, uh, kinda hoping to go with something a little cheaper." Markus' smile tightened slightly.

"What were you thinking?"

"Um, maybe I could take a look at your, uh, your defectives." He flinched as he said the word. Defectives were just that - defective. Very few people ever wanted to purchase them, and for good reason. Plagued by either diseases or some type of disfigurement, both work and birth related, defectives were never bought with the idea of long-term use in mind. The most dangerous of jobs were usually filled by them, as their life expectancy and worth were so low that it didn't much matter if they didn't survive. As horrible as he felt, Burt knew that a defective adoptive was the only thing he could afford. He would only need them until his condition improved, and after that, the boys would be able to help by working part time over the summer. Burt's eyes almost started to water as he thought again about how he would be buying the life of someone with little time left, only to have them work until they couldn't anymore. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on him. He was going to work someone to death so that he himself could survive. At least he hoped he and his family could offer the adoptive some form of comfort and kindness that few adoptees would ever experience in their lives.

Markus just smiled as he flipped to the back of the book.

"Of course, Mr. Hummel," was all he said as he turned on his heels and began walking down the long, white hallway. Burt followed him quickly, trying not to look through the small windows on the doors that would allow him to see the adoptives within. At the end of the hall, Markus turned and led Burt down a small ways before opening a brown door. Inside was a square room. The three walls in front of them each had three small doors that no doubt housed the defective adoptives, three of which had manila envelopes attached to clip boards by their doors.

"We have three defectives as of now, one female, two male."

Burt took a hesitant step forward to look through the window of the first door. Markus stepped beside him, picking up the envelope and casually flipping through its pages.

"Adoptive: 20879. Caucasian female, 27 years of age. Previously adopted by a middle aged couple, used for cleaning services, tested positive for the HIV virus."

Burt stared at her. The woman sat at the edge of her bed staring off into nothing. She was facing the door, but the movement outside it did nothing to break her emotionless trance.

"Adoptive: 14983. Hispanic male, 42 years of age. Previously adopted by an oil refinery here in Cleveland, tested positive for lung cancer."

Slowly Burt approached the second door, barely glancing inside to see the man sitting at the edge of his bed as the woman had, staring into nothing. He looked away quickly, his resolve to follow through with his plan breaking with every moment that passed. These were people. These were sick people. And they were going to die. He couldn't do this, couldn't make someone work only to know that soon they would die and he would go on living. No, he had to get out.

"And finally," began Markus just as Burt had begun to protest, "Adoptive: 45277. Caucasian male, 15 years of age. Previously adopted by a young couple, used for simple maintenance and cleaning services. Severe misuse resulted in blindness in his right eye and permanent scarring on his right cheek and ear, no hearing impairment." Burt stared at Markus, whose smile never left his face as he read the words in the file.

"Him," Burt stated, the word sounded rough as it left his mouth, "I want to take a look at him."

Markus stepped forward and pressed a button on the small white door. There was a quiet buzz as the door unlocked, and Markus quickly pulled it open. With a step back he looked inside the cell-like room.

"Come," Markus ordered. There was a light shuffling sound as the boy stood, then walked with his head bowed low out the door, stopping to kneel at Markus' feet. "To Mr. Hummel," Markus ordered, pointing towards Burt. The boy quickly bowed to Markus, his forehead brushing against the man's shiny black shoes before quickly shuffling himself over to Burt. Again, the boy bowed against the shoes of the man before him, though Burt was wearing his dusty work boots and knew that couldn't be pleasant for the boy.

"What's he doing?" Burt asked quietly. Markus flashed his teeth brightly.

"As with all the others he is quite well trained and can perform a vast range of tasks with minimal instruction. He does, however, seem to have some issues when it comes to greeting people he hasn't met before." The man bent down to ruffle the boy's thick black curls. "He's a little skittish, but we would be happy to assist in working out that kink with follow up sessions if you wish to purchase." Burt shook his head.

"I'm about three hours out of Cleveland," he said with a grimace.

"Oh." For the first time, Markus looked genuinely upset. "We could take another look at 14983, if you like?"  
"No." Burt stated quickly. He looked down at the boy still bowed in front of him. Slowly he knelt down, grimacing as his back gave a small pop in the process. With a tentative hand, Burt touched the boy's shoulder. Though it wasn't visible, Burt could feel the muscles under his fingers tense at the contact. Slowly he began to stroke the boy's shoulder in a slow, soft motion. With his free hand, he moved it to cup the boy's chin, slowly raising his head. The entire right side of his face was covered in a thick black nylon mask that started just over half way across his forehead to the base of his jawline, held together by a Velcro strip that attached behind his head, though it was hidden deep within his curls. His left eye was open, though it was cast as far downward as would be allowed. From what he could see of it, Burt guessed that it was hazel in color. His lips were pulled tight with tension at the close contact with the man before him. Burt moved his thumb, sliding it up and down the smooth skin of the boy's uncovered cheek. His expression did not change, but at least it was an expression. Raising his hand a little more as he continued to stroke, Burt chanced another look directly into the boy's eye. There was nothing. Perhaps the facial expression had been a bit of hope that he hadn't found someone entirely broken. That he could find a way to right the wrong he hadn't even committed yet. With a sigh he slowly dropped his hand, allowing the boy's head to fall against his boots again.

"How much?" Markus flipped to the last page of the file.

"$1,500." Burt laughed humorlessly.

"Is there something wrong, Mr. Hummel?" Burt shook his head. He didn't want to say it in front of the boy, but he was quite sure that the last television he had bought had cost more than that.

"Does he have a name?"

"Whatever you choose to call him will be suitable and he will respond to it so long as he knows it is he who is being addressed."

"What about his face, is he in any pain?" Burt lightly thumbed the rough nylon material, wincing as it caught on his dry skin. He could only imagine how that felt on a scar.

"I assure you we have given him sufficient treatment for his injuries."

'But is he in pain.' The question lingered in his mind, but from what Markus had just said he already had his answer. Instead of pressing the question further, he just looked up and asked,

"Where do I sign?"


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as Burt had made his decision, Markus had produced a worn leather leash and attached it to the back of the boy`s facemask. Markus had led the way, and from the look of it, the makeshift halter had to be causing the wearer quite a bit of discomfort as it pulled awkwardly from behind his head, catching at his curls and ripping a few from his skull.

Once they had reached the row of offices things had progressed quite quickly. There had been very minimal paperwork to go through, considering that after all was signed he, Burt Hummel, would be responsible for the life and wellbeing of a fifteen year old boy who had yet to show any indication that he possessed even the slightest of emotions. It was a lot to process, but before he knew it, Burt was handing over $1,500 cash in exchange for the worn leash attached to the small boy. Burt took it with an internal sigh, gave an emotionless thanks to Markus, and attempted to smile at Holly as he and the boy walked through the front door.

The boy walked a step and a half behind Burt, and though Burt could hear his soft steps on the gravel behind him, he couldn't help but turn every second or so to make sure that he wasn't walking too fast, that the boy was still behind him.

Fumbling for his keys, Burt stopped at the driver's side door of the car. Hearing the scratch of gravel beside him, he looked over to see the boy quickly sinking to his knees with his head bowed low and palms pressed to the ground, parallel to Burt's current stance.

"Hey, kid." The boy's head rose slightly in acknowledgement that he was being addressed. "You don't need to do that. You can get up if you want to." The boy leaned further forward to rest his forearms on the gravel.

"Thank you, sir."

He didn't move. Burt took a deep breath and sighed, watching as the boy tensed slightly at the sound.

"You can stand up, kid," he repeated. The boy touched his forehead to the ground, lifting it slightly as he spoke again.

"Thank you, sir." This time he did rise quickly to his feet. His hands clasped firmly in front of his torso as his chin rested on his chest. Burt held in another sigh as he finally found his keys and unlocked the truck. Immediately, the boy began to walk to the back of the truck where he stood half hidden beside the canopy.

"May I get in, sir," he asked as Burt stood frozen, unsure what to do.

"You, uh, you'll be riding up front. With me," he managed to say as he walked towards the boy, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder as he guided him to the passenger side door. "Unless you're tired and want to sleep, or something. There's room in the back for you to lie down if you want."

"Thank you, sir," he replied again. Burt opened the door and shifted the seat forward so that the boy could get to the bench in the back. He hadn't realized just how short the boy was until he began trying to crawl into the car without touching anything. Burt placed a gentle hand on his back to steady him and was met with a quiet hiss as the boy froze in place. Letting go quickly, Burt gestured to the handle above the door.

"You can grab onto that if it helps you." The boy bit his lip. Taking an experimental few hops he was able to gain enough momentum to jump up and reach the handle before using it to pull himself into the back of the truck.

"Thank you, sir."

"No problem, kiddo." Burt pushed the seat back and walked around to the driver's side of the truck. When he got there he chanced a peek at the boy, surprised to see he wasn't there. Panic set in as he looked around the car. Had he run off already? What would happen if the Home were to find him hiding somewhere on their grounds? What would they do to him?

"Kid," he called softly, not wanting to alert the Home of his disappearance.

"Yes, sir." The equally quiet reply sounded near, and he looked in the backseat again where he was met with one hazel eye looking up at him from the floor of the truck. The space itself was about a foot and a half wide, and even with his small size Burt was surprised that the boy was able to fit himself inside. His torso was sideways within the gap, his arms bent and folded tightly to his chest. The boy's knees were sticking up, just barely passing the height of the seat above him. The whole position made his body appear painfully contorted, and Burt felt safe in the assumption that it probably was.

"Wh-what are you doing?"

"Lying down as ordered, sir," the boy responded in the same, expressionless voice. Burt swallowed loudly and licked his suddenly dry lips.

"You can, uh… you can lie down on the seat, kid." The boy nodded.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Thank you, sir." With a grunt of effort the boy removed himself from the gap and awkwardly positioned himself on the bench. Burt bit his lip as he slid himself into his seat.

In hindsight, he probably should have asked more about the boy. He was wearing something that resembled a very thin beige nightgown, but even through the shapeless thing Burt could tell the boy could stand to gain a few pounds. He hadn't even asked to see the damage to his face. Markus had asked if he had any questions, but Burt had felt odd speaking about the boy as though he wasn't present or capable of answering for himself. Asking to see his face would have felt like a violation of privacy. He wasn't a doctor. He couldn't take the pain away. As soon as they reached home he would sent the boy to Carole. She would know what to do.

"Seatbelt," he reminded quietly as he turned on the car. A small click and a muffled reply was heard as began to reverse out of the lot, trying to prepare himself for the long three hour drive ahead of them.

They made a quick pit stop at the gas station down the road from the Home where Burt purchased a bottle of extra strength Tylenol and a bottle of water for the boy waiting in his truck. Making his way through the parking lot, Burt could see the boy's outline through the lightly tinted back window. He sat just as he had on the bed in the Home, facing forward, eyes unmoving. Burt wondered internally whether or not the boy had so much as shifted his weight during his absence. Upon reaching the truck Burt opened the door as gently as he could, not wanting to startle the boy inside. As Burt clambered in the boy lowered his head and angled it towards Burt in a symbol of submissive attention. Burt was almost glad that the boy refused to look at him so that he wouldn't see his attempt of a smile that he was sure appeared more as a grimace. Throwing the plastic bag onto the passenger seat Burt began to rifle through, fingers curling around the plastic bottle.

"I got you some Tylenol for your, ah, your face." Burt flinched as he remembered when Finn had gone through a phase of answering every question with the phrase, "your mom" before his mother had deemed it inappropriate. He had begun retaliating with the use of "your face" instead, and continued to do so on occasion. Burt himself had stifled a grin on more than one occasion, enjoying seeing the glimpses of childishness in his almost grown step-son. But here and now it wasn't so funny anymore.

The pills rattled in his hand – whether he did it on purpose or it was a reaction from his nerves, he wasn't sure. Opening it carefully, Burt pulled off the seal and removed the layer of cotton inside before shaking two pills into his hand.

"Here ya go," he said quietly as the boy extended an almost hesitant hand towards him. As the pills changed hands Burt accidentally brushed the boy's palm. Had he not been paying attention, Burt wouldn't have noticed the boy's hand tense at the contact or how the rest of his body seemed to stiffen along with it. It was the first reaction that they boy had had, and Burt found he was both relieved with the knowledge that he was capable of giving a personal reaction and devastated that the light contact had provoke such a strong reaction. Burt turned back to the bag and fished out the bottle of water from within. Turning his attention back to the boy, he furrowed his brow.

"Where did the pills go, did they fall?" He hadn't meant it as an accusation, but from the boy's full body twitch it had come across that way – to him, at least.

"I-I'm sorry sir," he began, lowering his head and torso as far as the confined space would allow, "I took them. I thought I was allowed, sir. I'm sorry." Burt began to raise his empty hand to place it on the boy's knee, but at the hitch in his breath he stopped.

"It's okay, kid. I got them for you, you can take them. I just thought maybe you'd want something to help wash them down, is all." He handed the bottle to the boy, who hesitated a moment before taking it in his hand.

"Thank you, sir," he said after a moment's hesitation. Burt sighed.

"Just call me Burt, kid. I'm not really good at the whole formal thing." The boy's jaw tensed again before he nodded.

"Yes Mr. Burt, sir." He sighed again.

"We'll work on that." The car roared into life once more and Burt began to carefully navigate out of the busy parking lot. "But while we're on the subject," he began again, "That Martin, Maverick, Markus guy didn't really give you a chance to talk for yourself back there, and I'm really sorry, kid, but I didn't quite catch your name." He grimaced at how awkward and uncomfortable he sounded.

"I will answer to whatever you choose to call me, Mr. Burt, sir." The boy fisted the unopened bottle in his lap.

"Just Burt, kid. And you've gotta have a name," his fingers drummed against the steering wheel as he thought, "what about those other people you were with, what did they call you?"

"They called me boy, Mr. Burt," a slight pause, "sir." Burt took a deep breath.

"Well that's not gonna do, is it," he mumbled, "and I can't keep calling you kid, kid." His fingers drummed louder as they pulled up to a red light. Glancing in his rear view mirror, Burt saw that the boy's shoulders had slumped and that his eyes were blinking furiously as the medicine began to take effect. Burt was surprised how quickly the boy responded to the pills. A sharp honk jolted him back to reality. He tore his eyes away from the boy's losing battle as his attention returned again to the road.

"We can talk about this later. If you're tired, it's okay if you fall asleep. There's plenty of room back there, feel free to put your feet up and make yourself comfortable." There was no sound of movement from behind him, but Burt did faintly hear the boy's quiet reply before the inside of the truck became completely silent.

"Thank you, Mr. Burt, sir."


End file.
